


Reason for the Season

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [8]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: Developing Romances, F/M, Family Dynamics, First Kisses, First Time Romantic Scene(s), Gen, Turtle/Human relationships, holiday celebrations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Time is here!  The presents are wrapped, the decorations are hung, and the egg nog has been drunk.  But there are a few surprises still in store for the Turtles and their girls.  Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas to all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike my prior Christmas Turtle fic, this one does actually have a place in the "2nd Time Around" series. It's also following the end of "April Moon", about two months thereafter. Please enjoy!

If Halloween is the season warranting unhealthy levels of excitement from the youngest among them, then Christmas, without fail, without exception, year after year after year after year after year, is the season in which Michelangelo, almost quite literally, loses his mind. Starting December 1st and continuing until sometime in the middle of January—though the decorations have been known to linger until the beginning of March—Mikey becomes an uncontained explosion of tinsel, sleigh bells, and mistletoe, responsible for everything from diving headfirst into the various decorations they’ve managed to collect over the years, to singing carols, off-key, at the top of his lungs from sun up to sun down.

This year, in a highly uncharacteristic demonstration of self-control, Raphael has exiled himself to the garage, working tirelessly on his motorcycle behind closed (and locked) doors, where Mikey’s joyous caroling is muffled and there’s a notably less chance of someone being strangled. The rest of the family also has their own way of graciously handling the overload of excitement: Sensei spends much more time in deep mediation with a pair of Donatello’s earbuds, the aforementioned brother is spending quite a bit of time between his lab and April’s apartment, and Leonardo has taken to sleeping over at Celine’s for days at a time.

There is, in a way, some twinge of sadness in considering how drab and haphazard the lair looks; the decorations were hardly store-bought from the beginning, and have since not aged well. In the same vein, it’s rather sweet at the sheer joy Mikey demonstrates, without fail, at pulling the water-stained boxes out and decorating as though the treasures within are brand-new. In a city—or, rather, a world—where people constantly seek out the new and aren’t satisfied with anything less, the humble joy is rather touching.

_Nevertheless._

“Hey, O’Neil!” she could give Angel the benefit of the doubt, act as though it’s just an old habit not yet kicked, but she has strong suspicions the redhead just does it because surnames are so much easier to remember…or because she knows it annoys April. “Over here—we hit the jackpot!”

“Over here” is four aisles down in the rather crowded department store, off to the left, a quiet negotiation through two shopping carts blocking the path while their owners browse shelves, and finally to join her companions. In happy defiance of both store etiquette and personal safety, Angel is scaling the shelves to obtain a tree stand located not at the lower levels but instead on the top shelf. Celine watches, shaking her head silently, and when she meets April’s questioning gaze, she shrugs one shoulder and quirks the left side of her mouth. _There’s just no point in stopping her_ , she says without words, and nothing could be truer.

Angel plops back to the laminated floors with relative ease, arms full of a very large and, according to the label, extra-durable tree stand, grinning broadly. “What do you think?” she asks, setting it down so everyone can make a proper inspection.

Celine’s eyebrows disappear beneath the artful fringe of her bangs. “Angel, we’re not getting a redwood. That thing is huge.”

“And so is their Christmas tree! Or at least, it will be.” The redhead beams, delighted beyond reasoning, and bounces a little in place. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever! I can’t wait to see their faces!!”

April can’t help an amused smile. “You really get into the holiday spirit, don’t you?”

“This was Nana and I’s season.” Angel says, her smile sobering just a little, and collects the tree stand from the floor to fit (aka push, shove, cram, and threaten) beneath their shopping cart. “The tree, the decorations, the presents, the food—especially the food; Nana could cook and she cooked _a lot_. We used to take the leftovers downtown, to the local shelters, and I’m pretty sure it fed half the homeless population.”

“I’ll do my best to fill your Nana’s shoes.” Celine promises, setting a little kiss to Angel’s forehead. “Though I can’t promise the leftovers; the boys eat their fill and then some every time I cook.”

Angel says she’ll battle them for the last slice of homemade pecan pie, if need be, and then promptly steals the cart and heads for the main aisle, declaring “full steam ahead” for the decorations. Celine shakes her head again, offering gratitude to the Almighty for a very profitable November, with two art showings back-to-back, and not a single painting left. Except for the “Christmas in New York” piece she’s set aside as a gift. Considering how much time Leo spends in her home, April can’t imagine where Celine hid it, but her friend is very creative. No doubt she came up with something both clever and still inconspicuous.

By the time they catch up to Angel, she has three boxes (each) of standard ornaments, in three different colors, five coils of colored lights, and is currently tossing box after box after box of colored garland into the cart. Celine asks if they’re decorating a tree for the boys’ living room or the one in Times’ Square. Angel tells her to stop being a Scrooge.

From April’s coat pocket, the opening chords of “Jingle Bell Rock” suddenly begin blaring out for everyone in this aisle and the next four to hear; she retrieves her phone and makes a mental note to stop leaving her phone with Mikey’s easy reach. Or maybe she’ll ask Don to put a new security lock in place.

The calling number isn’t one she immediately recognizes, but it’s Christmas and there’s no reason to be unpleasant to strangers. For privacy, and because too many people are still staring at her for the unnecessarily loud ringtone, she steps away from the girls and settles near the wall display. “Hello?”

“ _Hey, babe._ ”

She doesn’t drop the phone, completely, but it’s a near miss. “Who is this?” she asks; a tiny voice at the back of her head reminds her of the Christmas spirit and all, but it fades to a weak whisper. The question makes it worse, because it was both rhetorical and idiotic. She knows who it is.

“ _Seriously?_ ” the caller sounds amused, and it makes her twitch. “ _Has it been that long?_ ”

_Yes_ , she wants to say, really, _really_ wants to say, it has. Five years, in the relative realm of reality, qualifies as a “long time”. Maybe not the longest, but still long. “I don’t know how you got my number,” she finally says, with cold formality, “but don’t call it again.”

She turns the ring level down, not to silent mode, but enough that the next call won’t warrant the attention of every shopper within a five-mile range. A deep breath, then another, and she turns on her heel to join the others. Her quickly-collected mood is an effective guise: neither Angel nor Celine takes notice of anything being wrong, nor do they inquire about the caller. It works, and it works well, until her phone starts ringing again. And again. And again. And again.

“That’s not the guys, is it?” Angel asks, bent in half and stretching to the far reaches of one shelf to grab the last box of silver tinsel.

“No.”

“Everything alright?” Celine’s eyebrow lifts, in that horrible way she does when she suspects something is amiss.

“Fine.” April flashes a toothy smile, then drops her eyes to Angel. Or rather, the southern half of Angel visible outside the shelving unit. “Finish the tunnel to China and let’s get to checkout. Celine’s on a schedule, remember?”

The drawn-out whine, muffled but still audible, says Angel does in fact remember, as does the pronounced pout on her face when she finally emerges, dusty and ruffled, with tinsel in hand. “I can’t believe you’re taking off right before Christmas.” She sniffs, dramatically, with lip quivering and all. April suddenly has a flashback to Mikey’s face when he heard the same news, and wonders if it’s adorable or slightly concerning for both of them to have identical reactions.

“Angel, it’s the 5th.” Celine reminds her, with a hand scoffing away the dust and smoothing a few strands back to order (more or less). “I’ll be home well before Christmas Day.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die, the whole nine yards.” The blonde flicks away a lingering clump of lint from Angel’s shoulder and then takes hold of the cart. “Now, let’s rock and roll. I’ve still got things to pack and passengers to collect before this party gets on the road.”

***

Were anyone to, for reasons unknown, pass through the abandoned subway tunnels around ten o’clock this morning, they would have heard a devastated wailing akin to something one might hear in a horror film, in a scene where the unsuspecting tourist is snatched up by the CGI-designed monster and dragged away to their unseemly fate. Now, at the mid-evening hour, devastated wailing has turned into hysterical sobbing and agonized protests. Raphael hasn’t emerged from the garage since it all started, and the rock music blasting from behind a closed door has steadily grown louder with each hour. Between one brother’s music and the other brother’s vocalized anguish, Donatello is wondering just what severe lapse in better judgment possessed him to not remain in April’s apartment last night.

“Now, my son,” Sensei says, tone exceptionally calm and blissfully ignorant of the green mass, commonly known as Michelangelo, sobbing into the threadbare carpet a short distance away, “tell me, once more, of your plans with Miss West.”

“Once more” should really be translated as “The twentieth time in as many days”. But Leo is ever the patient one and regales their father with the plan, for the twenty-first time: he and Celine leave tonight, no later than nine o’clock, by car; they’ll drive along the back roads until they reach their destination, and they’ll take the back roads again in returning to New York. They’ve estimated a week for the trip, but there is always a possibility, with weather and all, it could be a little longer. However, Leo adds, over Mikey’s ungodly wail of despair, they will be home for Christmas, without exception.

Sensei nods, then takes a careful look over the prepared garments laid across their couch: three full-length coats, two pairs of denim pants, four extra-extra-extra-large plaid shirts, and a winter set, complete with hat, gloves, and scarf, hand-knitted and presented as a gift for his last birthday. “Very good.” He finally murmurs, though with a heavy sigh. “Miss West will communicate through April, as to your whereabouts and safety, yes?”

“Yes, Sensei.” Leo nods.

“Very good.” Sensei repeats, ignoring Mikey’s protesting shout of how it is _not_ okay. “Now, hurry and get dressed, my son. Time flies among us.”

Mikey takes the opportunity to latch his arms around Leo’s ankle, shaking his head with wailing sobs and pleas for his brother to not leave them, that he’s too young for Leo to go, that the world is too big and too dangerous for him to go it alone, that it’s almost Christmas and how could Leo possibly even consider leaving them—more specifically, leaving Mikey—in such a time of need. Donatello sighs, staring down at the forty-eight page of _The Circus of Dr. Lao_ , which he’s been reading for the last ten minutes, still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to have retained from this page, and puts the book away.

As Leo is half-dragging their youngest brother across the floor, trying to get to his bedroom, Raphael comes to the rescue, finally emerging from his workspace, splattered and smudged with oil, and scoops Mikey over one shoulder. Leo offers his thanks before disappearing around the corner, and Raph promptly dumps Mikey on the couch. His eyes run across the room, find Donatello on the other couch, and his brow ridge quirks up.

“Thought you’d still be with April.” He says, around the two—and really, who chews on _two_ at the same time?—toothpicks hanging from his mouth. “She kick you out already?”

His face flushes, heat blossoming up from the back of his neck to the topmost forms of his cheeks, as his inner eye recalls April, emerging from her bedroom at the early morning hours, hair tussled and unkempt, blue eyes sweetly blinking away sleep, robe loosely tied and hanging low off one shoulder, gliding across the floor, settling in his lap, and, every movement graceful and in direct contrast to the way he’d nearly flung tea left and right from the mug in his hand, kissing him good morning. His head spins, even now, mouth still tingling from the warm imprint of dry but soft lips, senses still recalling her scent, of fresh linens and warm skin and vanilla from her body lotion.

“No.” he says, clearing his throat twice and deliberately ignoring his brother’s smirk. “She had errands to run and I wanted to…collect some things before going back. And I _am_ going back.” He adds, with unnecessary emphasis, but his brother won’t stop smirking. “For the remainder of this week, and quite possibly the majority of next week. If you have need of me, that…that’s where I’ll be.” 

He finishes strong, but Raphael is still smirking. How red _is_ his face, for goodness sake?

“Uh, Donnie…” Leo calls, emerging in full civilian dress but battling with both his shirt and coat, which have somehow managed to tangle themselves into one very unusual garment, “Could you give me a hand with this?”

***

“It was nothing.”

“Hm.”

“ _Nothing_.”

“Hmm.”

It shouldn’t be possible to despise such an arbitrary sound as the one made by lips lightly pressed together around an expulsion of air through the nasal cavity. But _by God_ she hates that sound when it comes from Celine’s mouth. “I told you, wrong number who thought he was the right number.” April says, neatly folding some shirts and placing them inside the suitcase. “Now then, did you remember your—?”

Dropping the suitcase lid, nearly taking April’s hand off in the process, was unnecessary and childlike, but it certainly gets attention, and she can only assume that’s what Celine was going for, judging by the deliberate forward step and the way both hands are planted firm on her hips and the way she’s leaning in very close and April’s nearly cross-eyed from trying to hold their gaze at this proximity.

“Let’s try this one last time,” Celine says, too sweetly for the rattlesnake-inspired glare she’s giving April, “ _Who_ was on the phone?”

“I—”

“And the following answers will not be accepted.” Celine adds, still too sweetly, continuing to step forward, close, closer, closer… “ _I don’t know, I don’t remember_ , or _It’s not your business_. Now then, please submit your answer in the next five seconds before this conversation advances to the level of criminal interrogation.”

The soft _whump_ of her body descending to the previously-made bed is hardly graceful: her hair flies around her face, her limbs sprawl wide, and she knocks two pillows to the floor. When she tries to pick them up, Celine informs her, quite briskly, that they’ve been there before— _I really didn’t need to know that_ , April thinks but doesn’t say—and says she’s still waiting for an answer.

Dignity in defeat, April supposes, and maneuvers her limbs into an upright position, pushing her wayward mane back with both hands and then clasping fingers tight around her nape. “I think it was Casey.”

One would think Celine could at least have the dignity to look sympathetic, or at least fake it out of courtesy for their friendship. But, no, of course not; she rolls her eyes skyward, huffs a breath, and snaps her suitcase open once again to resume packing. “And here I thought it was something important.”

It takes about two minutes for her jaw to lock into its normal hold, and once it does, April throws herself off the bed and pays undue homage to her Creator with a dramatic arm flourish. “ _Seriously??_ ” she fumes. “Weeks and weeks and weeks of constantly getting on my case, asking if I was moonlighting with my _dear little rebel_ , and the answer was always _NO_. Now, he calls me, out of the blue, while we’re Christmas shopping, and your response is _I thought it was something **important**_?”

“Down, girl.” Angel says, cracking her bubblegum, while entering the bedroom with arms full of clean laundry. “What’s the deal?”

Her reflexes fail her, the hand reaching out for Celine’s mouth, with full intentions of clamping down and shutting her up before she even speaks, comes half a second too late and Celine’s already side-stepped her. “April’s hockey-stick-toting, bike-riding vigilante of an ex has come back to town.”

“I—we—you don’t know he’s back in—”

“ _Biker_?” Angel’s eyebrows are sky-high and her face is split in a horrid grin. “Prim and proper, successful-business-running, career-oriented April O’Neil hooked up with a _biker boy_? How and why have I not heard this story before?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell.” April grounds out through a locked jaw, glaring death at Celine, who doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. “We broke up.”

“Doesn’t sound like he knows you broke up.” Celine replies dryly, neatly tucking pajamas into her bag and closing it with a flourish. “He called five times, April.” Then, a smirk, and she adds, “One call for every year. Appropriate.”

April doesn’t know how red her face is, but her skin is on fire and she’s faintly dizzy, so it must be some undiscovered shade between crimson and vermillion. Celine makes it worse, reaching over to pat her on the head. “I said it’s not important, my sweet little diva,” she says, “because it’s not. If he is not aware that, after five years of radio silence, your relationship has since ended, may I advise you answer his next call and tell him as much. And my assessment that it is not important stands because, as I’ve said twice now, it’s not. You have moved on. You have someone else in your life. Done and done, story over, exit stage left. Now put your smile back on and give me a hug.”

She doesn’t give a hug as much as she’s wrangled into one, and her ribs feel distinctly bruised when Celine releases her at the sound of a window being opened. The winter night air blows in, and Angel says something uncivilized as the gust hits her bare arms. Around the corner, in the living room, Leo negotiates his way through the window, slowly and lacking his usual graceful stride; the civilian clothes are not conducive to his efforts, and no doubt very restrictive on his body. Nevertheless, Celine praises the new look, fondly adjusting his hat while simultaneously giving him a kiss.

“April?” Leo looks up, and he wears the same look of concern as his beloved did previously, “Everything alright?”

_No_ , she doesn’t say. “It’s fine.” She pulls a smile back into place. “Is Don still with you guys?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Leo smirks quietly. “He’ll be racing back to you in about five minutes. It’ll keep him from witnessing Raph pummeling our brother into the ground.”

“Now, my love.” Celine chides, shaking her head as though greatly disappointed in him. “You’ve never left home before; it’s perfectly normal for your brother to be upset.”

“Upset” constitutes a variety of responses, April smirks to herself; Mikey’s response to Leo’s announcement has bordered on an emotional apocalypse, and she’s rather proud that Raphael has taken it upon himself to redirect his irritation and not commit fratricide. Off the left, Angel rolls her eyes, a clear sign that she too finds Mikey’s dramatics overdone and unnecessary, even when she herself is nearly as guilty.

“Alright, we’d better head out.” Leo says, nodding farewells to both women. “Try to keep them out of trouble?”

“No promises.” Angel replies playfully. April can’t help a coy smile; Angel will likely be the one getting Mikey into trouble, if there is any to be made, and as Celine so effectively pointed out earlier, there just is no stopping them once it starts. Hoping and praying the damage isn’t too severe, once it’s all said and done, is the key.

The door closes behind them, and Angel immediately darts to the window, face pressed to glass, straining as she looks down and waits for one last glimpse before they drive away for the next two weeks. From April’s back pocket, the phone buzzes, once, and while she’s reaching for it, the jazzy chords of Mariah Carey begin:

_I just want you here tonight, holding on to me so tight._   
_What more can I do?_   
_Oh, baby,_   
_All I want for Christmas is you!_

“Ever thought about installing some kind of alarm every time he goes near your phone?” Angel asks, turning away from the window with eyebrows arched high and lips smirking broadly.

April grins. “This one’s on me.” She winks and brings the phone to her ear. “Hi, babe.”

***

Sneaking out, surprisingly enough, is remarkably simple once Big Brother vacates the premises. Sensei is retired to his room, Donnie’s made a beeline for April’s place, and Mikey is drowning his sorrows in eggnog. No one asks questions when Raphael slips back into the garage, locks the door, and then makes for the escape hatch. It’s a bit of a tight fit, and his mind drifts to the image of old Saint Nick shimmying his way down a chimney, inch by inch, negotiating a body otherwise not meant for such small places to his destination. The manhole cover is a welcome sight, after half an hour of crawling down a long-abandoned maintenance shaft, and the cool winter air is sweet to his lungs.

He can’t wear the civilian look as well as Leo; very few clothes fit over him and he knows it. But this isn’t his first time making a break for it, with the family otherwise unaware, and he’s learned the black leather of his Halloween costume works well in normal settings too. In the shadows of night, anyone who sees him only sees massive muscles and black leather, and they walk away. Hiding in plain sight, just like in the movies. He grins at the thought of it.

Up on the roof, a half-condemned apartment complex which quickly became their designated rendezvous point, a figure similarly in black, though a slender contrast to his muscle and bulk, is perched at the opposing ledge. He takes a silent moment to admire the profile: black leather all around tonight, from the knee-high boots to the jacket fitted snug and zipped high, and soft cloth for the hood currently draped over her head. It hides the details of her face, like one of those superdames Mikey’s always reading about in his comic books. Raphael previously dismissed the whole comic thing as “reserved for mega-nerds,” but there’s no denying how badass Karai looks right now. She’s started wearing the hood, as of the past few weeks, and it works for her. She looks ready to knock teeth in, break a few bones, and then slink back into shadows like a cat.

“Missed you the last few nights.” She says, in such a way that he knows she’s been aware of his presence for a while now. He shrugs, taking a few steps forward; she twists gracefully, lifting one leg here and relocating it there, and now he can make out the gleam of her green eyes and the shape of her lips. Dark red lips, to be exact. _Nice._

“Family.” He says. “Gotta have priorities.”

It’s a low blow, in that he could have come up with something much better and just didn’t feel like putting that much effort into a retort; her eyebrows quirk and she shrugs one shoulder. “You missed a good time.”

“What, you went it alone?” he’s not surprised, entirely. She’s a lone wolf, and she can hold her own. She doesn’t need him tagging along to knock heads in.

“Just because _you_ stand me up doesn’t mean I’m not going to have _my_ fun.” She replies, almost crooning at him with dark lips smirking. He has a brief, fleetingly so, curiosity about those lips against his mouth, and then he blinks it away.

“Well, I’m here now.” He cracks both sets of knuckles and his neck, for emphasis. “Let’s get this party started.”

Being perched on the ledge means she’s the first one over, but he’s quick behind her. This is the freefall part of the evening, jumping ledges, scaling buildings, tossing bodies through the air like circus performers, one after the other after the other. He watches, a short distance behind, as she launches herself from a ledge that’s too far a jump to make, catches herself in mid-fall on a clothes line, and then rockets back upward, twirling through the air. Her hood slips, and he sees black strands whipping across her face, left and right, green eyes closed, chest rising and falling with a deep breath as she takes it all in, and then she’s on the other rooftop and he focuses on catching up, not admiring the view.

And there _is_ a view to be admired, make no mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April and Don have a talk; Raphael and Karai share an unexpected moment.

“No.”

“Just one?”

“ _No_.”

“Half of one?”

“ _NO_.”

“Angel-Face—”

“You,” she points a finger directly in Mikey’s face; the height difference sort of ruins the emphasis of such a gesture, but whatever, “have gone through _fifteen_ cartons of egg nog in three days. The answer is _no_.”

“It’s therapy!”

“If these were laced with rum, you’d be a functioning alcoholic.” Angel retorts, closing the refrigerator door and stepping in front, just to make the point. “Drown your sorrows in pizza, but you’re not touching _another drop_ of eggnog until Christmas Day. Not _**one**_ drop.”

He dissolves into a sobbing puddle at her feet; it might be pitiful, if not for the overdone dramatics that make her want to clock him upside the head. “Pipe down, Green Boy, or you’re not getting your brother’s message.”

Well, aren’t _those_ the magic words? “Message?” Mikey shoots upright, face remarkably dry considering he was only seconds earlier sobbing hysterically. “From Leo? What’d he say? What’d he say????”

She sidesteps him half a second before he topples into the counter from all his bouncing. He’s like an excitable toy dog…except bigger. And green. And hairless.

“All is well,” she relays, from the phone conversation she had with Celine an hour ago, “and they arrived earlier than expected. Which, in turn, should reasonably mean—”

“—They’ll be home even earlier and on time for Christmas!!” he catches her around the waist and twirls through the kitchen like the Tasmanian Devil; she feels dizzy and almost drops to the ground when he finally puts her down. “This is awesome! We’ll have the tree and the food and the presents and the decorations and the food and the Christmas music and the food and Leo and Raph and Donnie and Sensei and April and the pretty blonde and you and—”

“Mikey,” she says, clamping both hands over his mouth, “before we start including the shepherds and Wise Men, shut up and _breathe_.”

*** 

The guard has a very strange expression—a kind of trepidation mixed with something that almost resembles sympathy—when rapping twice on the bars and beckoning him forward; it's strange enough to hold attention even through the tedious process of being cuffed at the wrists and ankles, and Dominic tries to think of what might be occurring. It’s half past six in the evening; much too late for their daily hour in the yard. He already had dinner. There’s no fire alarm to indicate a drill or real emergency. The other cells are quiet, so it’s not a riot or so similar outburst. And the guard’s face doesn’t change, even as he’s being shuffled down the hall, around two corners, down another hall, and then—

—The visitation room?

“It’s Christmas, Mr. West.” The guard says, unlocking the shackles and then straightening up. “You get an hour.”

An hour? And who is visiting him, holiday or not? Certainly it’s not his lawyer; he relieved that poor man of his duties years ago, and there should be no appeals going on. He has no old friends who would be stopping by this place, and as for family…well, the thought of his wife’s family paying him yuletide cheer is laughable, which just leaves—

“I seem to remember telling you not to come here.” He says, as suspicions are finally confirmed when his daughter’s bright blue eyes greet him on the other side of the table. No Plexiglas, no telephones, just an empty room and a table with two chairs. He doesn’t know how she pulled this one off, but he’s too delighted to care. For the first time in seven years, he can look at her. _Touch_ her…

“There must come a time when a girl just doesn’t do what her father says.” Celine shrugs one shoulder, smiling playfully. No sooner does he sit down than her hand shoots across the metal surface and grabs his hand. He doesn’t cry, but just barely.

“Rebelling at twenty-six.” He sighs, head shaking as if in great despair. “Where did I go wrong with you, child?”

She giggles, a sweet and childish sound that his ears devour and store away in memory. “Train up a child in the way she should go, and when she is old, she will not depart from it.” She recites, squeezing his hand lightly. “Even if she strays once or twice, she always comes home.”

_Thank God for that._ He casts a look over her, twice, memorizing every details until it’s engrained across his inner eye. She looks healthy, eyes bright and lively, and her hair is a little longer. The rich green color compliments her wonderfully, and he quietly swallows as he recognizes the sweater. He remembers the last time he saw it, on a woman with nearly identical features, nearly thirty years to the day, with a smile beaming as he descended to one knee, offered a band of silver with two emeralds and a single sapphire, and asked the most important question he’d ever asked in his life.

It’s this time of year when he misses her the most.

***

For obvious reasons, maximum security prisons don’t have much in the way of window ledges or support beams. It’s understandable: no one in their right mind would provide an escapee a step ladder from their cell to freedom. Nevertheless, it makes things incredibly uncomfortable right now, and between finding balance on concrete sliver that's serving as a window ledge, keeping one eye on the security cameras to ensure he is not spotted, and holding this position for a full hour, he feels rather like he’s in the Hashi. This seems just like the kind of exercise Sensei would think up.

Of course, _he_ put _himself_ in this position, so Leonardo isn’t sure how much a statement it is on Sensei as it is on his own imagination.

The quick little peeks he’s able to take through the window deepen his concern. Dominic has lost weight since their last meeting, and while the elder doesn’t necessarily look ill, Leo can’t imagine he’s gone on a diet just to shrug off boredom. Something’s…off. If not explicitly _wrong_ , then certainly _off_. He shifts a little closer, ears straining to catch bits of the conversation with glass panes between them.

Celine reaches into her purse and withdraws a small book. He watched her pack it, earlier, without explanation. It looks old, black binding with lettering nearly faded and edges bent, creased, and slightly torn in places. It isn’t abused, per say, but certainly aged and used more than once. Dominic recognizes it, accepts it from his daughter with a somber look, and then brings it close, hands folded reverently over it. She speaks, but Leo can’t make out the words. Whatever she says, her father responds with a slow nod and thin streams of tears visible on his cheeks.

Their hour is gone too quickly. Had he the power, Leo would have ensured they had a day together. A week. A month…a year. Had he the power, this would somehow turn out right, all crimes and sins would be forgiven, Dominic would be released and permitted to live out the rest of his life a free man, and all would be well. His imagination even spins out the wonder of a beautiful future, in which he spends time with both Celine and Dominic, learns all he can about this man, learns all he can from this man, and they spend holidays and special occasions together. Dominic would accept him; he’s certain of it. Him, and his brothers…everyone. They could be a family, all of them, together. He knows it could work.

…But the truth remains, it’s a dream. A dream for an impossible future, and even a beautiful dream can and never will be anything more.

He carefully scales the building, delayed by the changing of the guard out front, and then meets Celine back at the car a few minutes later. She’s in the driver’s seat, unbuckled, tears running unchecked down her face. As soon as he’s in, tucked away in the backseat, she pulls out and starts driving.

Once or twice, he almost asks if she should be driving, if perhaps it wouldn’t be better to just pull over somewhere and rest for a while, but he decides against it. They haven’t crashed into anything (yet), and there’s no demonstrated reason to believe her ability to drive is compromised. Other than, of course, the tears continuing to fall down her cheeks. He has a sudden dislike for the backseat, for keeping him away when he wants to pull her close and hold her until her heart is mended. There’s a valid reason for him to stay here, of course, but he hates that even more. Of all the times when he wants to be normal, just for _five minutes_ …

Without warning, she pulls the car into a motel parking lot. Alarm bells immediately start ringing in his head; this is about as seedy a place as he’s ever seen, run-down and most certainly not a proper place for her to stay, even for a night. He has an argument ready, prepared with precision, but she doesn’t get out of the car. She locks the doors, twice, then crawls into the back with him. From one side, she retrieves blankets, unfolding each one and arranging a bed, of sorts, before sitting back with a quiet sniff and apologetic look.

“I can’t.” she whispers. “Right now, I…I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

He breathes relief. No seedy motel room, no one-night stops. The truck will be a tight fit, but he’ll fit and cram himself into a back seat if it means he can wrap her in his arms and keep her there until morning. “Come here.” He murmurs, pulling one blanket over her. She curls against him, tears warm and wet on his shoulder, and he slides fingers through her hair, murmuring softly, keeping her close, keeping her safe.

_I’ve got you. I’ve always got you._

***

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Almost, almost.” He promises, twice over, hastily checking all the last details and doing another once-over. Everything is plugged in, everything is placed as it should be, and the extended outlet is definitely loaded but not _over_ loaded. No sparks flying, nothing burning, no smoke curling up in the air. _All systems good to go._ “Okay, now you can look.”

“Spontaneous” and “impulsive” aren’t words to regularly be found in Donatello’s vocabulary. Tactics during training aside, he’s the one always in need of a plan, strict guidelines, and precise measurements to ensure guaranteed success. The only one worse than him, in the obsessively-controlling department, is Leo, and it’s a daily competition as to which one really is worse.

But he’s changing. Or, trying to, anyway. He doesn’t know how good he really is, or ever will be, at all of this, but he’s giving it his best. Hence the reason this late evening hour finds him in April’s apartment, frantically working while she made a grocery run, and now she’s standing at the doorway, eyes closed per earlier instructions. He can only thank the Powers-that-Be for her patience. His brothers would have been complaining five minutes in, and he would have caught Mikey peeking at least twenty-three times.

Her eyes open, blue orbs shimmering like fresh snow in the lights, and as she witnesses what he has done, her lips part to draw a shaky breath. She hastily steps forward, setting grocery bags on the kitchen counter— _I should have grabbed those…_ —and then turns in place again, eyes wide and taking it all in with hands cupping her mouth. For a moment, he fears she might faint, or perhaps be ill, but then she turns, he sees her profile, and beneath the line of her thumb he can see the corners of her mouth pulled back in a glorious curve.

Thrice more she turns, eyes darting from wall to wall, as though determined to take in every last detail: the strings of pale lights, shaped like snowflakes, adorning every wall, trimming each window, and draping from the ceiling, as though winter has descended upon her home in glittering fractals that will never melt; the rich berry-scented candles he’s carefully stationed throughout the living room and kitchen, every wick lit and casting warm glows to compliment the snowflakes; and, most especially, the tree set in her living room, the branches strung with multi-colored lights fished out of her decoration box earlier in a casual bout of curious exploration. 

He lets her take it in for a several minutes, imprinting the vision of her half-hidden joy on his memory, then swallows slowly and takes a tiny step forward. “I thought we could…” _Come on, pull it together, you’ve got this_ , “…decorate the tree. You know, together…?”

The final word drops off his tongue too heavy, too uncertain, and most definitely not with the inviting confidence he’d been rehearsing. These things always sound so much better in his head, and then he tries to speak and everything unravels like bad wiring.

She stares in silence for an awkward beat, but before the panic can set in, that maybe he said or did something wrong, she gasps, as though recalling an important thought, and dives into her grocery sacks. “Popcorn!”

“…popcorn?” he feels like he’s supposed to get it, but there’s only a big error message running through his head right now. A snack? A fundraiser? A strange ritual?

“Popcorn.” She repeats, straightening up with four packages in hand, beaming with that radiant delight he adores, no longer disguised behind closed fingers. “Dad and I used to pop popcorn and string it for the tree. I haven’t done it in years, not since—”

He hears the thing unsaid as she falters, and the tiniest drop of grief fills her gaze. He acts quickly, taking two packages and declaring it shall be so, that the tree will be adorned with lights and ornaments and popcorn. From his peripheral, he can see her smile return, with soft edges, and then her arms wrap around him from behind, cheek to his shell without pause. He nearly shivers. Soft. Soft and warm.

He wonders, later, when they’re both seated on the couch, he has one end of the string and she has the other and eventually they’ll meet in the middle, if everything is alright. She seems quieter tonight, as though something is weighing on her mind. It’s a troubling thought; not for her to have something on her mind, but that she doesn’t seem willing to share it with him.

Does he ask? Does he let her be? Does he try baiting the conversation—whatever that means; he heard the phrase on the radio a week ago and still doesn’t understand—or just stay casual, act as though nothing is off or…? Or? Or? He’s beginning to hate that word.

“April,” he starts talking, and the words fall out before he can make something of them that sounds both intelligent and not pushy, “what’s wrong?”

Silence, and her fingers pause in the process of stringing another piece of popcorn. Great. _Nice going, “genius boy”._ How does he fix this blunder? Stay quiet? Throw out a random comment capable of distracting from his idiocy? Follow up with some stammering about how he didn’t mean it and she should forget it and these strings are coming along really great and he’s happy she introduced him to—

…and she’s kissing him, one hand still holding the string and the other hand balancing her on the couch. In following his current of stupidity, he forgets to kiss her back until she’s pulled away and returned to her seat. He stares down at the bowl to his left, still two-thirds filled with kernels. Maybe if he swallows enough of them, he’ll choke and that will fix everything.

“This is one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.” She finally says, fingering the needle slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t want to…ruin it.”

“You won’t.” He says, praying the sincerity comes across in his voice. She wouldn’t ruin anything. Nothing she could tell him would ruin this, them, all of it, any of it. He’s heard those words before, in those strange television programs Mikey sometimes watches while dissolving in a box of tissues, but he means them, right now, with her. For goodness sake, she’s accepted him, the example of human perfection and the underground-dwelling mutant ninja. He’s fairly certain no secret of hers can outmatch that.

She smiles, and he can’t help but smile in return, watching her sneak one piece of popcorn for herself. “Promise?” 

The next piece, she playfully tosses at him; it misses his mouth, but he catches it before the ground can stake its claim, and her smile widens as he follows her example, popping it in his mouth. “Swear.” _Vow, sealed in blood, if you wanted._

A comfortable silence follows, broken only by the soft rustling as fingers reach into the bowl and pluck a kernel from the rest. His brain multitasks, divided between the task at hand and the way her fingers thread each piece on the string, one after the other, slender digits moving with precise skill and grace, blue eyes downcast with concentration. He loves this view: watching her at work, when her mind is so thoroughly dedicated to a single task, when the world around her just fades away into background noise, distant awareness. It reminds him of himself, a little, but more than anything, it reminds him of the time she spends in the lab, just the two of them, and he gets to see her beautiful brain at work, uninhibited, unrestrained, unlimited…

Her fingers brush his, and he looks down. A giant string of popped kernels runs across her lap and his, dribbling along the floor like an Amazonian snake, curling this way and that, disappearing around one corner and then reappearing, and in the middle, his hand beside hers. April smiles, giggling a little as she looks at their work, strewn wild across the wooden planks. “I think that means we’ve done enough.”

She’s the first on her feet, dusting her lap clean and making an idle comment about vacuuming later, and retrieves one end of the string while he gets the other. Just as before, they start draping each branch, ascending from the bottom, slow but steady, and then he nestles the final little bit at the top. Her smile has returned, when he looks back at her, but its corners are absent the usual unchecked delight. Sadness is there, for reasons he can’t quite determine.

“…April?” he slowly dares, taking a tiny step forward. It’s a trip down memory lane, when Sensei trained them to walk on a tight rope. One step at a time, slow, careful, because the wrong step will send him plummeting into the unknown.

Her lips disappear with a sharp breath, and then she sighs heavily and they reappear, briefly tinged with white before resuming their natural color. “Let me make us some tea.”

***

Okay, so the tea thing was just about the most obvious, and lamest, excuse humanly possible. April can hear Celine’s voice in her ears right now, chiding her about tiptoeing and pansy-footing when she should just start talking and worry about the rest later. And yes, that is what she should be doing…but “just talking” has never been her strong suit. In fact, she can’t ever recall a time when she was really good at that. Maybe as a kid? Possibly, but only if she was talking to the guys and Splinter.

She scoffs quietly at the irony: spilling her greatest secrets to her closest friends was easy, natural as breathing, when they didn’t speak, and even if they understood her, she never had to know what they were thinking.

He’s waiting patiently, on the couch, when she returns with two steaming mugs in hand. Each step makes her legs feel jellied, unsteady; by the time she passes on his cup and takes a seat, she might as well be walking on licorice sticks. And her stomach has tied itself into about fifteen different knots. She’s not sure if she wants to dissolve into the floor or throw up. Maybe both.

The cup gives her something to hold, as she talks. Her memory recalls the way Celine spoke, when they first met, and how she made it seem so easy to just talk and talk, revealing secret after secret after secret. She wonders if Celine really finds it so easy, or if her friend shared the feeling she herself now feels: the feeling of something thick coating her tongue, like molasses or tar, and each word being forced instead of easily spoken. At some point, she feels her eyes burning, and then something wet streaking her cheeks. The tears don’t stop, even when she forces tea down her throat in attempt to staunch their flow. She takes a drink, the tears cease, and then she swallows and they start up again.

“Why haven’t you told us— _me_ about this before?” Don finally asks, quietly, absent the accusing tone she was half-expecting, and there is an overwhelming rush of relief when he doesn’t include the brothers. Keeping it between them, him and her, feels safer. She can’t think of the others, not right now. If she does, she has no doubt the tears will never dry up.

“Donnie…” she makes a watery sound, some undiscovered pitch between a hiccup and unamused laugh, and sniffs quietly, “When you look at me, it’s with this…this overwhelming adoration, like I hung the moon. And I’m just not that perfect. Things have changed, yes. I’m not the same girl I was six years ago,” _Actually_ , she thinks to herself, _it’s almost seven now…_ “but I was once that girl, and I can’t change it. I just never wanted you to know I was that much of a mess.”

But, really, is it that surprising? She’s read enough psychology books and took enough classes in college to explain the choices she made in high school. Her father died tragically, when she was at a “precarious” age to endure such a loss. Therapy was a joke, literally, among her remaining family. People either didn’t trust doctors with degrees to poke and prod someone’s brain, or they couldn’t (and wouldn’t) pay for the sessions. Celine, strangely enough, had been the closest thing to a therapist she’d ever had, but it had been a few years after self-medicating through long study nights, rigorous classes, volunteer work and paid summer jobs, nights and nights of little sleep, because sleep meant dreams and dreams meant nightmares. She’d never “gone off the deep end” with parties and drinking and drugs, but getting involved with Casey had come very close. Wanting someone to protect her and love her, while a perfectly innocent desire, turned into something ugly. Anger, guilt, grief, and loneliness from her own heart, mixed with her boyfriend’s own unresolved rage, and the result had been an unhealthy and often volatile relationship. Never violence, but God’s plenty of arguing, breaking up and getting back together, a revolving door without any stability or balance.

She has a split second of awareness, prompted by his hands abruptly cupping her face, before he kisses her. It’s different, this kiss. He’s kissed her before, more recently, always briefly and almost chastely. This…it isn’t forceful or violent, but she feels a very distinct urgency spilling over from his mouth to her lips. The kind of kiss described as trying to communicate without words, and her head spins, trying to understand just what he’s trying to say, before deciding it doesn’t matter. Devoting all senses to memorizing the kiss seems like a much better use of her time.

***

“It’s fine.”

“Just let me look at it.”

“I said, _it’s fine_.”

“And _I_ said, let me look at it.”

“Woman—”

She puts a pair of heavy-duty pliers directly between his eyes; her other hand is clasped over a cocked hip, she has both eyebrows raised high, and coping a sassy attitude should be a crime if it makes a dame look as good as it’s making her look right now. There’s no reason for anyone to look that good. He doesn’t look that good, so neither should she.

“Let me look at it, you stubborn muscle mass,” Karai says, green eyes sharp through their dark frames of eyelashes, “or you can go home and explain to your family why there’s a bullet lodged in your arm.”

_Damn it._ She’s got him there. Leo might be out and about, but he’d still have to explain to Donnie why he needs a patch job, and if one brother knows, it’ll only be a matter of time before Sensei knows, and if Sensei knows… “Fine.” He grumbles, determined to not look happy about it. “Get going, then.”

She mumbles something under her breath, while crouching down in front for a minute, pushing loose strands out of her face, then straightens back up and redirects focus to his arm; he misses most of it, but he hears a few choice words that make him smirk. So, Little Miss Sunshine knows a few “big girl” words, does she?

Even when sitting, Raphael is nearly on equal height to her standing. As she works, wiping the area with some alcohol pads and cleaning the pliers she just shoved in his face, he notices her earnings from tonight’s activities: a busted lip, half a black eye, some pretty nasty scrapes up and down her left arm from being dragged across the pavement—though, as he’s been privileged to hear for the last half hour, she’s more pissed that the punks ruined her leather jacket than how her skin has been ripped left and right—and a cut across her right cheek. It occurs to him how bad humans have it; he has just as many bruises, cuts, and scrapes as she does, but no one can see his. She’s bruised and battered, sliced and diced, and there’s no beauty treatment to hide that mess.

She gives him a brief word of warning— _brief_ deserving of emphasis here—before he feels the pliers sink into his gaping arm in search of the bullet. His growl is both pained and irritated; of course, their entire bodies couldn’t be bullet proof. No, no…just the shell and chest. _Real friggin’ helpful._

“Would you hurry it up?” he growls, again, after the first two retrieval attempts fail and he now has both a bullet _and_ what feels like a pair of barbeque tongs wriggling around in his arm.

Karai gives him a rather impressive glare. “Suck it up and shut it.” She says, ever so eloquently, and huffs her bangs up when they stray into her eyes. “You should be going to a hospital for this.”

“No can do.” he replies, with another quiet hiss. “Forgot my insurance card at home.”

It takes a minute, and he almost misses it, almost thinks it’s a figment of the imagination, a symptom of being knocked upside the head a few times tonight…but, no, there’s no mistaking the tiny upward twitch to her lips. It’s brief, and then gone in half a beat, but he saw it. It was there. It was most definitely there.

“Did I just make you _laugh_ , Sunshine?” he asks, as though the idea is utterly absurd, unheard-of, impossible and improbable, and a whole bunch of other words he’s sure Donnie would use to describe the situation.

She gives her head a little toss, prim and proper, and, finally, pulls the bullet free with a smooth motion. “Guess you have a sense of humor after all.” She drops the offensive little mess of metal aside, with the pliers, and returns to the First Aid kit. “Who’d have thought it possible?”

_Same could be said of you_ , he smirks to himself. The white bandages will be hard to explain away, but he can probably make up a story about the bike, something falling or hitting him or whatever. At least he’s not going home with an open hole in his arm, lots of blood, and no excuses.

Silence settles between them, while she carefully cleans the wound, again, and then starts wrapping the white strips around his arm. He wonders how many times she’s done this, and for who. He wonders how many times she done this for herself. Shredder didn’t really look like the nursing type.

“By the way,” Karai slowly says, pinning the bandages in place; her hands linger there a moment longer than necessary, but he doesn’t shrug her away, “thank you.”

“For what?” he tests the muscle, once her hands have dropped away. It’s sore, but doesn’t feel like anything’s damaged. He shouldn’t have to worry about amputating the limb anytime soon.

She pauses, and she actually looks…what’s the word? Shy? Timid? No, none of that. Apprehensive? Maybe a little. At a loss for words? Definitely. Is she thinking of earlier? If so, the thanks is appreciated but not necessary. Her foot was caught in a chain, the chain was attached to a running vehicle, and those punks were dragging her up the street. If not for all six-foot-five-inches and three-hundred-some pounds of him crashing through the windshield, he has no doubt they would have dragged her across the city. Hell if he was going to let that happen. Or at least, Hell if he was going to stand by and _watch_ it happen. He was raised better than—

“For saving my life.” She answers; the words are tight, like she pried them from her throat and chucked them out of her mouth. And she looks like a little kid, chewing on her lower lip and refusing to make eye contact…and is she _blushing_ …?

He clears his throat, twice. What to say to that? _You’re welcome? Don’t mention it? No big?_ Why does he always have to get tongue-tied in these things? All three of his brothers know how to talk—in Mikey’s case, too well and too much—and yet he might as well go through life grunting and growling. Leo’s the eloquent one, the one who always knows just what to say and when; Donnie’s the smart one, who knows words that shouldn’t even be words because they’re way too long and sound too complicated for normal people; and Mikey is the blabber. On, and on, and on, and on, and on. And then there’s him, Raphael, the muscle, the first-hitter, the tough guy…but no one in his family would ever accuse him of being a talker.

“You’d have done the same for me.” He finally grunts out, determinedly staring across the room. Her place isn’t exactly a five-star joint, but it’s clean, and there’s a nice breeze coming in through the windows. After all the excitement tonight, a bit of winter chill feels pretty good right now.

He misses her forward movement, but when he casually looks back, she’s already there and her lips brush his. He freezes, all muscles locking tight, and he waits for her to pull away, make some comment about that being an accident, maybe a half-hearted apology with a word or two about how it was really his fault…but she doesn’t, not immediately. By the time she does, it’s ten seconds too long to have been an accident, or a mistake, or…

“See you in a few days.” Karai says, suddenly very focused on pushing both hands through her hair and tying it back with a band. “Give your arm time to heal before you decide it is time to catch another bullet.”

He opens his mouth, twice, but she’s putting the First Aid kit away, and she’s not turning back to look at him. He probably should be annoyed, or upset, or even furious, but he’s not. Whatever he’s supposed to be feeling, that part of his brain has been disconnected. He sits there, for a minute longer, and then slowly stands up. He doesn’t say goodbye, and neither does she.

When he gets home, the house is nearly empty. Sensei is watching television on the couch, facing away from the entry; Donnie’s probably with April, and Num-Nuts must be with his little redhead. He waits, just a second, but Sensei says nothing. For the first time, he’s grateful to the news reporters and their obnoxiously false cheer that never seems to go away, no matter what the news. If it’s keeping his father’s attention, he’s all for false cheer and awkward jokes.

He slips inside his room, bee-lining to his bed for a good night’s sleep that suddenly feels long overdue. In the process, he passes by his mirror, pauses mid-step, and then shakes his head. Must have been a trick. Something’s wrong with his eyes. Or maybe the mirror is possessed. No way that grinning idiot in the mirror was him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best part of any romantic evening is, always, the morning after. More or less.

The phrase “good morning” really just seems a contradiction in terms. It shouldn’t be, because there is no reason a person can’t have a legitimately good morning, not if they just put their mind to it, slap on a happy face, and go about their day determined to keep that happy face perfectly intact. There is nothing unreasonable about it. Nothing at all.

Nevertheless, April takes considerable offense when her alarm clock goes off, indicating there’s some reason to crawl out of bed before noon, and after her fifth attempt to hit the snooze button fails, she swings wide and knocks the clock off her nightstand. The carpet muffles the _thud_ , but the stupid thing still won’t stop beeping. With a low growl, she throws herself onto one elbow, fumbles behind the bed for a minute, and yanks the chord. _Finally._ Sweet silence.

_…or not._ She growls, again, yanking her pillow overhead for a minute, before snatching up her phone before she develops a truly intense hatred for “Jingle Bell Rock”. It takes her a couple seconds more of blinking before she can make out the caller ID, and she isn’t sure if this is going to help her headache or make it worse. “Hi, Angel.”

“ _Morning, Sunshine._ ” The redhead sounds far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour of the morning it is. “ _Wanna come let me in? I brought breakfast, and I need a place to wrap Green Boy’s gift._ ”

“And you can’t do it at Celine’s because…?” she mutters, slowly pushing herself into an upright position, one hand combing through the tangled mess that is her hair. Her hips throb in protest, and she swallows back a cringe in her voice.

“ _Because I missed you so much and we need some girl time._ ” Angel replies, now with a grand helping of sass. “ _Because Green Boy is at Celine’s, trying to pick the lock I put on the fridge. Are you going to let me in or not?_ ”

Why is Mikey at Celine’s? Why is there a lock on the fridge that he has to pick? Why is the sky blue and why are the clouds white and who the heck even cares? She grumbles acquiescence, dropping the phone back to her bed and leaving the sheets undone, because she’s too tired—and, to be frank, a little too sore—to care about making her bed this morning. Her eyes cast a brief glance to one side, the side with its covers neatly pulled tight and tucked into place, and she feels disappointment prick its way into the warmth that, only a short time ago, was tingling throughout her core. _Empty._ She shouldn’t have woken alone this morning…but she did. It hurts, more than she’s willing to admit, but it won’t ruin this. It won’t ruin last night. She won’t allow it.

It takes her almost half an hour to retrieve Angel, and the redhead announces as much with a tapping foot and crossed arms, both of which are filled with bags. “Don’t mind me.” She mutters, handing April two of the bags before strolling through the office lobby and making a straight trek up the stairs. “I’ll just stand out in the cold, unattended, alone, my arms slowly losing all circulation…”

“Sorry.”

“ _That_ ’s all you have to say?”

“I could apologize a hundred times, and you’d still bend my ear about it.” April retorts, taking the steps with care, one at a time, while Angel’s already in the office and waiting, still impatient, at the bookshelf. “What’s the difference between _one_ apology and _one hundred_ apologies?”

“A touch of sincerity, for starters.” The younger girl lifts an eyebrow, watching April a little too closely for the latter’s liking. “What’s with you? Bad fall?”

“Slept wrong last night.” She’s just as slow on the next set of stairs, which wouldn’t be problematic or even half as annoying if not for her very attentive company. And, of course, Angel just will _not_ stop asking questions. For goodness’ sake, at least Celine would just stare quietly; she’d almost prefer _that_ to what she’s currently receiving.

“…and how do you even sleep wrong on your hips? Is that just something that happens over time, or—?”

April stops in the process of putting bags down, turns sharply on her heel—a movement she quickly regrets but swallows the pained groan all the same because the irritation outweighs the discomfort—and fixes the redhead with a glare. “Did you just call me _old_?”

“…not in so many words.”

“Maybe you could have stood to spend another hour in the cold.” The brunette grumbles, turns back to the counter, more carefully this time, and begins doling out the boxed food. The scent of something sweet wafts through the air, and her stomach growls with recognition. _Pancakes._ Alright, maybe Angel can get off the hook for this one.

“Where’s Tall, Lean, and Geeky?” Angel asks, fishing an apple from the fruit bowl and munching her way through it. April resists the urge to roll her eyes; the nickname thing really needs to get toned down a notch, especially when Mikey does it just as often and with equal levels of un-necessity.

“In the guest room.” She answers, setting the food inside her oven to keep warm. “I think he’s updating our security system.”

He probably is, she quietly adds to herself, but that’s not the real reason he’s locked away in the guest room. She knows the real reason, and it makes her want to start crying again. She grabs the first bottle of water she can find in the fridge and starts chugging. It helps, a little. Angel’s eyebrows lift a little higher, and she steps closer. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” She pulls together something that resembles a smile. “I’m going to go check on Don. Feel free to use whatever space you want for the wrapping.”

There’s a short beat, between Angel strolling into the living area with a couple bags and April stepping away to the guest room. Then, as she’s resting an ear to the door and listening for any signs of life, Angel’s voice erupts from around the corner. “Holy moly! What decorating team did you hire for this? We need their number!”

_Closer than you think_ , April smiles to herself. There are no distinct sounds on the other side of wooden panels, but she thinks, maybe, the sound of him breathing is audible. Barely, just barely, but she’ll take it. “Don?”

Whatever little noise she could make out abruptly stifles. She waits, and she waits, and still there is no response to her call. She could walk away, give him a little more time to himself, give them both space, all that usual nonsense. But she can’t, because, frankly, he’s making this far more complicated than it needs to be. It’s what he’s good at, yes, and in most cases the trait serves him quite well. But not right now.

A couple hairpins take care of the lock, and she slips inside to find him bent over the laptop. He’s not typing, just poking at random keys here and there, staring blankly at the screen. Two forward steps, and she can see a blank screen. Well, not completely blank. Little windows pop up, once in a while, and then he hits another key on the board and they go away. He’s not working on their security system. He’s not working on much of anything, actually.

“Don.” She says again, and he nearly jumps out of the chair.

“H…how did you…?” his eyes move from her to the door, back to her, and once more to the door. She shrugs casually, taking another few steps; she doesn’t miss the way his eyes note her slow movements, lacking usual grace, and she watches the crease of what can only be self-loathing appear across his brow ridge.

“I helped you put in these locks, remember?” she murmurs, coming a little closer; he tries to retreat backwards into the chair. “Picking them isn’t that hard.”

He flushes a little, then looks down at his lap. The frustration is mounting, primarily with his refusal to actually meet her eye, and she’s nearly at the point of climbing into his lap and forcing him to look at her. Half a step away from doing so, she huffs out a breath and kneels before him, taking both hands in hers. He twitches, just a little, but doesn’t try to pull away. It’s small encouragement, but encouragement all the same.

Her eyes drop to their hands, and she forces back a shiver. _His hands…_ “Donnie,” she begins, but he beats her to the punch, literally, with a sudden upright movement that quickly bleeds into urgent pacing across the floor.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts, when there’s nothing to apologize for and she’d tell him as much if he would just let her get a word in. “I…what we, what I did was…I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.”

“Donnie.” She tries again, but he’s still pacing and still talking, and making himself more upset with each word. She can hear it in his voice and glimpse it across his face.

“It was…what happened was…” she tenses, waiting for the dreaded _mistake_ word to pass his lips, but it never comes and she breathes relief, even if he’s still talking, “I just—I thought—but you—I—”

“Don.”

“I’m just sorry.” He finally says, clamping both hands over his head, quivering a little, and she wonders if there aren’t tears forming in his eyes. “I’m sorry, April. I’m so sorry. I—”

“ _Donatello_.” She abruptly stands up, takes two giant steps forward, and grabs his upper arms in urgent hands. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I saw the—”

“Yes, I know.” she cuts in, because, even when she’s not a little girl or blushing teenager anymore, hearing the actually description is just something she doesn’t want to hear, especially when it’s clearly the cause of his distress. “It’s…” _Oh good grief, how to explain this?_ “…normal.”

“Normal?” he repeats, and she can see the next wave of abject horror, an amplified version of what she saw earlier this morning, just before she was suddenly left alone and cold in bed. “That…how do you call that _normal_ , April? The very definition of a physical injury implies nothing normal about it, and the cause of physical injury is something…something abnormal, which results in…damage.”

The things unsaid are only barely that; she doesn’t even need to read between the lines to understand what he’s implying, even if unconsciously, and his body language is certainly adding plenty of emphasis. Beneath her palms, the shoulders are slumping, his head is bowed, and the slow descent he makes against the wall, down to the floor, is heavy and weighed with something that resembles despair. She swallows, sinks to her knees, and finds his hands again. This time, she weaves their fingers together, a more solid anchor than before, and then leans against one propped leg.

“It was normal.” She murmurs. “I mean, I won’t pretend it was…like the movies, or whatever, but neither of us knew what we were doing, so that’s to be expected. Think of it like a…trial run.” She hates that phrase, especially in this situation, but she’s out of ideas and coming up with something witty doesn’t sound appropriate right now. “We didn’t know what we were doing the first time, but the second time can be—”

“Wait.” He suddenly says, as though a thought just occurred to him, and when he looks at her it’s with wide eyes, and a half-gaped expression. “Wait...we…you mean…we didn’t…you didn’t…?”

She feels a blush spreading wide across her cheeks, but it fits the shy tilt to her head and the awkward smile she’s managing to fabricate in spite of how ridiculously embarrassed she feels right now. “You…” she sucks her lips in, briefly, then releases them with a tiny sigh, shrugs again, and meets his stunned gaze once more, “You were my first.”

“Your…your first.” He echoes, distantly, looking confused, then startled, and finally relieved. Overwhelmingly relieved, actually. He swallows, hands settling at her shoulders, trembling as they do so. She smiles, tucking closer and watching the way he follows the downward tumble of her dark curls, cascading over one shoulder and brushing the top of his thigh. He looks at her with renewed wonder, and she thinks he might be recalling the events of the last night through new eyes, brushing away the ugliness of his uncertainty and inexperience, and making something beautiful, like he does with salvaged pieces that others call garbage.

And then, from the other side of the door, Angel’s voice calls out a summons, inquiring about the location of duct tape. April smiles, even around a tiny sigh of exasperation, and shakes her head. “This conversation isn’t over.” She promises, sealing it with a kiss, and straightens up to answer the call. 

Why, exactly, Angel needs duct tape for Mikey’s gift is an answer she chooses not to seek. She probably doesn’t want to know.

***

Donatello spends most of the next week in the guest room, bent religiously over his desk at all hours, breaking to eat when he remembers (or rather, April remembers for him) and taking full advantage of the empty loft while he completes his latest craft. April is out and about with Angel quite a bit, for reasons he doesn’t understand and has elected to not inquire after, because as soon as he starts asking questions of her, he’s quite confident she will start asking about just what he’s getting up to behind closed doors. Better to let her keep secrets so he can do the same, for now.

Tonight, he stretches slowly, working out some knots in his upper neck and shoulders with a few sighs and a couple groans, and then decides a change of scenery would help. He starts in the kitchen, intending to make a pot of tea, then switches to a pot of hot cocoa with milk. It’s not his preferred form of caffeine intake, but April has a deep fondness for it, during this time of year; he can only assume its foundation lies in childhood memories with her father, and perhaps her mother too. He imagines them—mostly April, but he can craft reasonable portraits of her mother and father, based on probable genetic inheritance from which parent—sitting around a Christmas tree with steaming mugs in hand, talking and laughing and just being together.

Strange, really, the concept of being _together_. It’s never been the strongest suit for any of them, his brothers and all, because they are so different in personality and ambition and drive. But there are moments; he’s calculated them all and preciously stored them away, mainly for those moments when he feels ostracized or has the urge to become an only child. Few and far between, but they are there to be remembered. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like, though, to have a mother and father and child, the perfect family unit, indivisible even with their imperfections.

As he drops tiny marshmallows into the dark brown liquid, his mind—often a traitor, these days, and once more tonight—drifts and imagines April, not as a child, but a mother herself. The image comes much too easily, but it’s unsurprising because there is nothing about April to indicate she would be anything less than a wonderful mother. He can see her with only one, and he can imagine a full household of small figures with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, running here and there, imploring for her attention and receiving it without pause. She would be…wonderful.

A lump gathers in his throat, very similar to a plaque blockage in an artery, and he forcibly swallows. The image is enough to convince him this, this between them, him and her, her and him, can’t last. It can’t. April would be a devoted and loving mother, and she shouldn’t be denied the chance. There must be a human man out there who will give her that, who can give her children. Human children. Healthy, normal, human children. The kind he can’t, because he’s not human and he’s not normal. Of the three aforementioned, he only qualifies for one attribute, and that isn’t enough to—

“What’s this?” her voice trickles in his ear and breaks his thoughts, like sunlight creeping through rafters, like sweetener dissolving away the bitterness of grapefruit or the tartness of strawberries. She appears at his side, sweatpants at her hips and overlarge sweater draped loose over one shoulder, warm smiles and delight. “You’re spoiling me.”

He smiles, for once not caring that his cheeks are flushing, and carefully garnishes the mug with a single dollop of Cool Whip. He hasn’t developed a taste for the thick creamy topping, but she loves it. Once or twice, he’s found her eating it from the tub with a spoon and, when she catches him looking, a playful shrug and smile tinged with white.

They settle on the couch, cocoa in hand, and after a moment of careful consideration, April murmurs that they still need to decorate the tree. Recent events being as they were, his intentions of adorning her tree with ornaments have been put on hold. His heart skips now, that she’s brought it up of her volition and with a very serious expression to indicate serious thought.

“We…we could. Tonight.” He mumbles, yet again stumbling over his words. She doesn’t seem to mind. Then again, she never does.

“I have a confession.” She says, setting the half-empty mug aside with a sheepish little grin. “I actually haven’t decorated a Christmas tree in years.”

“Years?”

“Probably not since I went to college.” She sucks in her lips for a minute, in the way she always does when embarrassed or shy. “But it feels like…like it’s been forever. After Dad died…” she pauses, and he thinks to comfort her, or change the subject, but he doesn’t, because now feels like the time to just sit and be quiet, “…It just wasn’t the same. The family never felt right, never felt whole and complete. My great-aunt tried, for a while, but once she passed away…well, as the saying goes, once the glue was gone, the structure fell apart.”

He swallows, pressing hard for a good response and coming up virtually empty, except for one, and he’s so uncertain of it that he can’t even speak above a whisper. If it turns out to be the wrong thing, he can always pretend he said something else and she misheard. “You can start again.”

She looks at him, but there’s a silent invitation to continue and he decides, against better judgment, to take it. “We’re together again. All of us. And now we have Celine and Angel too. We could…” the words stick in his throat, and he has to cough twice just to clear it, “We could be a family, with new traditions and…”

_And what?_ Memories? Adventures? All those wonderful things families are renowned for experiencing together? It goes without saying, so why is he having such a hard time pushing the words out? What mental block is plaguing him this time, that he’s talking with even less intelligence than he can regularly employ in her presence?

He already knows: it’s the image, the same one from before, but this time it’s changed and he resents whatever part of his imagination saw fit to be this cruel, that it would craft an image of the family—he, his brothers, Sensei, Celine and Angel and, of course, April—sitting together in the lair, hidden away from the world and celebrating the holidays without a care, in their own special way, with April’s arms full of a small squirming bundle of little limbs and its’ mother’s bright eyes.

_Impossible. Improbable and impossible._ He can’t think about that. He needs to enjoy what they have, for however long they will have it. “…Memories.” He finally finishes, wrangling a smile in place that feels halfway genuine.

April beams, that radiant smile blossoming across her cheeks. “Oh, don’t worry, Don.” She winks at him. “We will.”

He can only assume from her words and expression that she’s planning something, and he wonders who all is involved in this covert operation. Celine and Angel, obviously, but what about his brothers? Do they know anything? Mikey is the most obvious candidate to be included, but he can’t keep a secret from anyone or anything and he’d have cracked long before now, the week before Christmas. Who else could it be? Leo, maybe?

“Come on,” she tugs at his hand, pulling him to his feet, “we’ve got some decorating to do.”

***

He and Celine returned much later than planned. That’s not to say they haven’t been in touch, just that they—meaning, _he_ —decided a side trip was in order. It was, overall, a win-win: He got to see all the different places Celine used to go with her parents, and she is in a much better mood. The heaviness in her heart and on her spirit may not have yet waned, but for now, she’s smiles and gentle joy, and that’s all he can ask for right now.

Of course, returning a week late does have some ramifications. A younger sibling hurtling himself forward at full-throttle, arms latching tight in what must be the world’s most uncomfortable bear hug, happens to be one of them.

“Don’t _ever_ leave me again, Leo!” Mikey wails, unnecessarily-loud, considering how close his mouth is to Leo’s ear. “I’m too young for this kind of separation. I thought you were never coming back! I had severe anxiety and depression and had to be hospitalized twice and they thought I wasn’t going to make it and all I wanted was to see your wonderfully handsome face one last time before it all ended and—”

“Missed you too, little brother.” Leo manages, carefully negotiating his way free and depositing Mikey on the floor; his sibling promptly wraps himself around one leg, but at least walking is still a viable option.

“My son.” Sensei murmurs, emerging from his room with arms already extended in welcome. Mikey refuses to release his leg, so Leo executes a strange maneuvering technique to properly embrace his father. The relief is a gentle sigh against his shoulder, followed by a gentle pat. “I am glad to see you return safely.”

“I’ve missed you all, Sensei.” He nods, reaching down to pat his brother’s head with affectionate amusement.

His father looks around expectantly, and then inquires about Celine. The concern is audible and very touching; he makes a point to mention it to her, later. “She owes Angel a movie night.” He explains with a smile. “Girl time, as she calls it.”

“Sounds like a real swingin’ party.” Raphael rumbles upon emerging from his room. The light down here isn’t the best, by any means, and so Leonardo thinks he might be just seeing things that aren’t there to be seen, but his brother’s left arm is sporting something that looks very much like a wound. It’s dark in shape and not particularly large, and his brother’s coloring is already a darker shade than the rest…maybe he’s just seeing things.

“My Angel-Face can make anything a good time.” Mikey declares proudly, finally releasing Leo’s leg and jumping to his feet. “This Christmas is going to be the best ever, now that we’ve got the whole family together!”

“Yes, I am sure it will.” Sensei nods, setting another gentle touch to Leonardo’s arm. “But for now, it is late, my sons. There has been much excitement, and there is more to come. We will need our rest.”

Mikey pouts, and though he too follows Sensei’s instructions, he goes about it much slower, trudging behind his brothers with comically-exaggerated depression. “Bet _Donnie_ doesn’t have a bedtime.” He laments quietly. “He and April are probably staying up late watching Christmas movies and eating lots of sugar cookies and drinking eggnog and having a grand ol’ time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don and April share an intimate moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fair warning: This one earns the Mature rating for content. Nothing graphic, but plenty suggestive.

The boxes are old, but they’ve been carefully stored and are far less damaged than the boxes Mikey fishes out of storage, year after year, always showing their age and wear in ways that simply can’t be ignored or excused. Their decorations for the lair are hardly store-bought, and in desperate need of replacement. But they haven’t the time nor the ability, and so they make due without complaint, though Donatello has seen Mikey gaze wistfully at the television, sighing quietly with the commercials for shiny new ornaments and brightly-colored tree lights. No one tells him to be grateful for what they have; at one point or another, each one of them is equally guilty of wishing.

He takes this opportunity to live vicariously through April’s ornaments, treasuring each one and the memories attached. She tells him about each one: the wood-carved reindeer from her grandfather, the hand-blown glass ornaments her great-aunt brought back from a trip to Lithuania, the arts-and-crafts decorations she herself made as a little girl in school that her father refused to throw away, and so many more. So many decorations, probably enough for two trees, and he makes a point to decorate every branch, so no ornament is left in the box.

Finally, from the last box, he retrieves an intricately-detailed angelic figurine, with white feather wings folded neatly at each side and stretching to the hem of a beautiful berry-red gown, trimmed with gold and tiny sequins. Her dark brown locks are gathered delicately atop her head, haloed in gold, and he sees a distinct resemblance that simply can’t be coincidental.

“Dad bought it when I was five.” April murmurs, gazing at it with misty eyes; when she reaches for the angel, he delicately places it within her open palms and watches as she runs gentle fingers over the crafted details. “For years, we didn’t have an angel for the tree. And then he found this one. He said it reminded him of both his girls. His…angels.”

Her voice catches a little, and she swallows back what he suspects would have been a tiny sob. When she looks up at the tree, the very top well out of her reach, he decides to do what he’s not very good at: following impulse without additional thought and without consideration for any logical consequences.

She gasps, softly, when he catches her by the waist and hoists her upward. She feels weightless, like a feather, like a grain of sand, like a sliver of glass: delicate, balanced, fragile, _beautiful_. He watches as she carefully puts the angel in its proper place, and his breath catches tight in greedy lungs. The lights—red, green, blue, white, pink, and gold—should be muddled and murky in their combination, but instead are distinct in each varying hue, haloing her in brightly-colored speckles; the candles wash a warm gold over her cheeks and pool radiantly within her eyes. Her smile is pure innocent delight, she looks so very happy, and his head spins with emotion. Too much, too much to bear, too much to behold when she’s so exquisite and he’s…not, but how can he even consider looking away?

Her hands rest gracefully on his shoulders, balancing her slow descent. Bare toes tickle the carpet, he could and should let go of her, let that be that…but he doesn’t, and her smile softens, transforming to something else. Something that spreads warmth through every limb, every fiber, and then settles deep in his core. Both arms wrap slowly around his shoulders; her sweater is thick and soft against his skin. Her scent wafts through his senses, intoxicating and rich: fresh pine from her laundry, berries and vanilla from her soap. Her hair is a rich veil draped with casual elegance around her face, and her eyes are so very bright. He shivers. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s…

_Everything._

“Please tell me you know.” April whispers; her lips are right there, one inch and twelve millimeters from his mouth, so close, so soft, and he nearly loses focus on the question in the dizzying haze clouding rational thought and leaving bare scraps of logic and reasoning behind, floating throughout the empty space that was previously a fully-functioning brain.

And then the question—or statement, as it were; he didn’t necessarily catch an actual inquiry anywhere in there, and her voice didn’t intone curiosity or wondering—catches up. Know? _Know what?_ He knows many things, and most of it he can remember with barely an effort and recite with hardly a hesitation. He prides himself on knowing many things, and always being on the hunt for more things of which to know. Admittedly, he has no idea what he’s doing now, with her, but he didn’t know last time—if indeed the events of tonight are meant to mirror those of several nights prior—and she didn’t offer any objection on the matter. What, exactly, is he meant to know?

“…Could you please be more specific?” he finally asks, and the relief is overwhelming when she smiles and runs feather-light caresses across his face.

“I’m in love with you.” She breathes, and his heart ruptures.

_In love._ A considerably progressive step from mere love. He can appreciate and understand the simple construct of _love_. He loves his father. He loves his brothers (at least 99.5% of the time). He loves the wonder of seeing the improbable become probable and the impossible blossom into reality. Nature, Science, often warring with each other, but in their individually-unique abilities to conceive life from death and healing from sickness, they stand united; he enjoys watching the process and loves being a part, however small, however minor, of the process. He loves the mind he was given, by Nature or by Science or by both, that allows him to see things that, by all reasonable measures, shouldn’t be there to be seen. He understands love. He’s broken it down to something he can reason and rationalize, and it’s no longer a mystery.

_In love._ “In”—expressing the situation of something that is or appears to be enclosed or surrounded by something else (preposition); expressing the situation or being enclosed or surrounded by something (adverb). “Love”—intense feeling of deep affection (noun); the feeling of a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone (verb). In. Love.

His mind spins wildly, computing and rearranging and transfiguring and calculating, working to fit pieces together like the 2,000 piece puzzle he once fished out of a gutter and assembled in two days. _In_ —enclosed, surrounded by— _Love_ —intense feeling, deep affection, romance, attachment.

_In Love_ : to be enclosed or surrounded by intense feelings of deep affection or attachment to someone.

Her fingers brush along his glasses, and his brain suddenly jumps into hyper-drive, blinking away confusion or uncertainty as he gently catches her hand. “No,” he whispers, “I want to see you.”

There’s supposed to be some sort of embarrassment involved, admitting he can’t see his own hand in front of him without glasses, but he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel any embarrassment at all, actually, or shyness or uncertainty or awkwardness or anything that makes him the gargantuan, socially-inept, prone-to-stumble-over-words, universal nerd that he is. It’s Halloween all over again—he’s Donatello, but he’s not, not really, because he feels suddenly calm and confident, and outside of explaining what his brothers so lovingly describe as “techno-babble” and delving headfirst into mad-scientist projects, Donatello is neither calm nor confident.

But tonight…he is.

April shivers as his one hand delves down her back, smoothing along the gentle curve, and carefully takes hold of her hem. There’s a moment of pause, when he meets her gaze, when he asks the question without speaking, and she responds by brushing lips delicately over his mouth, then drops her kiss down his jaw and neck. The strength supposedly sewn inherent within reptilian flesh fails entirely; his skin feels paper-thin and expressly sensitive, tingling violently with each press of her lips. She reaches his pulse, and it must feel like a drum beating without rhyme and without direction, just senseless and erratic tempo.

His fingers pull the sweater in a fluid motion, without pause, until it’s passed over her head, sending dark waves spiraling free, and dropped aside on the floor. A few strands fall into her eyes, and he follows impulse to brush them aside, holding them tenderly with fingers resting at her cheek half a beat too long, but she turns and kisses his palm, and he lets the touch linger a moment more.

He means to wait for the rest, but she seems impatient; for what, exactly, he isn’t sure and forgets to wonder, as she gently escapes his hold, slips away for exactly the amount of time needed to be rid of remaining clothes, and then steps close once more. This time, he’s responsible for holding her at bay, keeping space between them for a moment longer, and just looking. Staring. Gazing. Memorizing. _Adoring_.

She is beautiful. Beyond comprehension, beyond reason, beyond sense and sound logic, she is beautiful. Pale skin, smooth and nearly unblemished, but even the blemishes—the tiny freckle right-side of her clavicle, exactly one inch beneath the smooth jut of bone; a curious little formation of caramel-colored flesh at her left hip that must be a birthmark; tiny nicks here and there from sparing lessons that have faded to pearl-pink against her natural color—are beautiful, because they’re part of her. Dark hair, spun silk spiraling from her head, past her shoulders, nearly to the center of her back; his fingers tangle loosely once more within a section hanging over her left shoulder, watching the strands slip and slide freely from his grasp. Her lips are soft and formed to perfection. Her eyes are so blue they put a clear summer day to shame. Her body…

He has a vague awareness of dropping to his knees before her, mostly from the tickle of carpet on his skin and the sudden height difference between them, but all attention otherwise remains on her. This body is something the great Renaissance artists, whose surnames he and his brothers share, could scarcely envision. The smooth and delicate lines of her arms and legs, toned with lean muscle and disguising more strength than so-called feminine weakness; the perfectly symmetrical curves of her hips that blend flawlessly into her lower appendages; the toned surface of her belly and upper chest cavity molding into the soft swells of her breasts…

_“When you look at me, it’s with this…this overwhelming adoration, like I hung the moon. And I’m just not that perfect.”_

Two fingers rest lightly at her stomach, the subtle line beneath her sternum, and trace a languid path downward to her lower belly. She squirms, just a little, and flushes pink when he looks at her, questioning silently. “Ticklish.” She whispers, nibbling her lower lip shyly. Shy, not completely at ease, and he feels a sudden rush of pure adoration to her emotions so unguarded.

He swallows, willing the words to not ruin the absolute tenuousness of this moment, and then exhales slowly. “You _are_ perfect.” He murmurs; her lips part, likely to protest, and he elects to keep talking before she can correct him. “To have all required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics, to be as good as it is possible to be, to be absolute or complete…that is what _perfect_ means, April. And you are. Before we met—or met again, whatever—I…I was convinced this kind of…exquisite beauty was the stuff of imagination and fantasy. Cells, by definition and by existence, are imperfect, constantly changing, eternally unstable, and logic insists imperfection in junction with imperfection can never create anything but the sum of their parts.”

Both hands rest at her sternum, fingers brushing the underside of each breast, and he slowly leans forward to set a kiss to the left, where he lingers to feel the thrum of her heart skipping its natural rhythm and faltering a moment more at his touch. “My eyes and my mind are fine-tuned to spot mistakes to see imperfection with the intention of fixing it. You may never see yourself as more than the sum of your past, and every mistake you made. But I don’t. I look at you, and there is only perfection. Nothing less.”

Her eyes follow him, almost entranced, as he straightens and stands upright once more. “If someone mentally trained to see flaws looks at you and sees none,” he slowly finishes, swallows mid-sentence, “why should you see anything different?”

The next sound she makes is a shuddering exhale, and then tears, thin and nearly invisible on her skin, fall in delicate streams from her eyes. “Show me.” She whispers, hands resting at his chest. “Let me see you. All of you.”

Calm and confident is his preferred mindset tonight, but apprehension creeps in all the same, even as he complies with her request. He wants to say this isn’t a big deal, that they’ve done this before and she’s seen it all, but that’s a lie. Or at least, it’s a half-truth: when they’d stumbled inside her bedroom, that night, there had been no light. She’s _felt_ him, but she’s never _seen_ him. And, as much as he wishes otherwise, there is a difference.

April doesn’t look away as he’s slipping free of remaining layers—much less than he’s usually known to carry, but still enough—and when it’s done, he has to take a minute before meeting her gaze again. Self-consciousness is certainly no stranger to him, but at the moment, it feels less like a close acquaintance and more like an incredibly aggravating telemarketer; it’s taking great pleasure in looking at her, taking her in, and knowing what he looks like, comparatively, in such detail that he suddenly feels ill under the clenching weight of his insecurity.

Her fingertips touch him like a painter’s brush to the canvas: slow, deliberate, sweeping motions, leaving little untouched along its path, and what remains is caressed by her lips. Sensation courses hot and fast through his nerves, stimulating them beyond reasonable endurance. It’s too much, but he’ll never tell her to stop. He could, _perhaps I should…_ but…

She lowers to her knees, hands splayed wide across his thighs, lips kissing here and there; the touches are innocent enough, but the mere image of her, on her knees, before him, makes his head spin. It’s not right. He should be kneeling before her, paying homage to her beauty, her brilliance, her heart, her…

Her lips kiss a slow path up one leg, fingertips tracing idly up his inner thigh; he trembles violently and clenches both hands at each side. She follows the junction of leg and hip, outward to inward; he finally has to remove the glasses because they’re terribly fogged and he can’t see anything one way or another. She’s reduced to a dark-topped blur, pale skin distinct only when set in stark contrast to his green flesh; her touches continue, unceasing, lips following the forms of his lower body, hands lightly cupping each hip, until—

_Oh. **Oh.** Oh, please don’t stop._

When she delicately pulls away and stands upright once more, it’s too soon and yet not soon enough. He’s dizzy, the room won’t stop spinning, he feels like there’s a fire to his back, or his front, or maybe it’s all over, and every inch of him is _throbbing_. He can’t make out her face, but she kisses him, tongue delicately flicking at his lower lip in a way that most certainly couldn’t have been accidental, and when she speaks, it’s in a low smoky tone that trickles liquid fire through his veins, instructing him to sit down.

It takes a minute for him to remember his current placement and the distance backwards to her couch; after he’s pulled his bearings back from far reaches of recollection, she promptly does away with them again, draping herself over his thighs and retracing earlier kisses along his neck. This is certainly not the first time she’s settled in his lap, but all prior times have involved clothes, intact, secured on the body. Now, there’s no fabric masking the glorious heat of her skin, the intoxicating waft of her scent. She’s so close, so very close, so wonderfully close, and she continues to shift closer as his hands smooth along her sides and lower back.

_A dream_ , he almost thinks, but he thought that last time too, and it was anything but. No point in making the same mistake twice.

_Mistake._ The word recycles itself, louder this time, and his clouded mind briefly clears, images tossing themselves left and right at his inner eye: the sharp gasp when he entered her, the tension rippling through her body, and, let him never forget, the blood, come morning’s light. She assured him it was “normal”—he still doesn’t understand, completely, but that’s research for another day—but he can’t and won’t take the chance.

He doesn’t know, exactly, what he’s doing, but there appears to be a more primal part of his brain that does. Or, at the very least, isn’t afraid to follow impulse desire and just act, not think and ponder and question.

April gasps when one hand carefully slips between her thighs, but it’s much softer, and there’s no trace of pain in her lost breath. The next sound she makes is definitely _not_ pained: low, shuddering, made while her hands urgently take hold of his shoulder and her hips shift forward, inviting and not jerking away. The movements lose their tenancy, and their usual grace, as he continues, likewise losing his uncertainty and anxiety, dissolving into something that’s almost animalistic in its frantic need. He follows her unspoken requests, guided by her body language, and then watches, with absolute wonder, as she tenses, spine curving tight, and then her body ripples in conjunction with a broken sound that resembles a whimper and yet is nearly a breathless scream. His ears quickly take hold of the sound and catalog it away in memory, where it will never be stolen and likewise will never be forgotten.

“Are you alright?” he whispers; one hand glides lightly through her hair, brushing slightly-damp strands aside. He regrets the question almost immediately, when her eyes snap to his face and they’re suddenly much too bright and nearly predatory; he feels like a cornered rabbit facing down a ravenous fox.

Her hands shove him, albeit lightly, backwards, deeper into the soft cushions, then grip his shoulders more securely while she balances over him on both knees. “Not yet.” She breathes, in that low and smoky tone that should be outlawed—worse yet, he can tell, from the satisfied little smile on her lips, she knows what it does to him and there’s a 97.875% chance she’ll henceforth be using it as her most favored weapon and he can just forget about getting any real work done once she does—and he has barely half a second warning before she slowly, carefully, but deliberately makes her descent. And then he stops thinking entirely, because she’s soft atop him and unbelievably hot around him, and his higher brain function really has no place here.

Time stands still, maybe for a moment, maybe for an hour, and he looks at her again. Sans his glasses, he can’t make out the details and misses them, but the shapes and colors have blurred together into something abstract, lacking finer construct, but there is an inexplicable beauty about it. She looks otherworldly, ethereal. So soft, so warm, so alive... _perfect_.

She leans forward, presses the softest kiss to his lips, so soft and sweet and tender that he has the strange urge to cry, and then whispers, low and gentle, “Love me, Don.”

And by God, he does.

***

She takes absolutely no issue with, following a sudden and unexpected execution of movement, being toppled from her upright position to flat on her back, plush rug soft against her bare back and Donatello towering over her, mouth paying wondrous homage to her skin, from sternum to between her breasts to neck to a little place beneath her left jaw that sends sparks through her veins. The sensations run unchecked across her nerves, leaving her dizzy and disoriented and desperate and… _everything_. His hands, gliding firm and warm across the legs she quickly ropes around him, then to her hips; from her sides to her chest, from her shoulders to her face while his mouth finds hers yet again, and then back down her hips, nearly engulfing them between broad palms. And through it all, unceasing movements, against her, inside her…all around her.

It’s no secret that he’s taller than her, bigger than her, stronger than her. All of them all are, to varying degrees. But never has she felt it more apparent than right now. He looms above her, strong and tall, seeming invulnerable, like a great protective wall around her. And yet in the same breath, she feels him inside, and he could break her. He could destroy her. 

But he never will. The hand now lost in her hair and the other fiercely entwined with hers says as much; the way he worships her in soft kisses and ghosting caresses reminds her of it with every touch. She nearly weeps. All those moments of temptation, those cruel little whispers about how she shouldn’t refuse, how her body wasn’t worth saving, how Casey or any other wanting man would be as good as she’d ever get, suddenly gone, dissolved in the radiating burst of warmth and joy she feels right now.

“I’d do anything for you.” He whispers, low in her ear, absent any hint of shyness or trepidation. “Anything at all, if it means you’d be safe. I live for you. I’ll fight for you. I’d die for you.”

A sob finally claws free of her throat, not because of the foreboding nature to his promise, but because she knows, beyond a doubt, he means it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holiday season wraps up with motorcycle rides, stolen kisses, and a big surprise to ring in Christmas morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the final chapter to "Reason for the Season". Thank you to all who read, commented, and/or left kudos. I do really appreciate your support with this series. Happy New Year!!

“About time, O’Neil!” Angel huffs, dismissing proper manners for the better display of indignant rudeness from the moment she opens the door and invites the brunette in via a hurried gesture and scowl. “Called you fifty times already…lose your phone again?”

“Angel,” Celine chastises gently, eyes very intently focused on her friend’s demeanor, “I’m sure April had a very valid reason for her delay this morning. Put your Christmas cheer back on and get your coat.”

The polite neutrality lasts until Angel disappears into her room, and then Celine glides to April’s side with arm locking securely around her slim shoulders. “We seem to have had a pleasant evening.” She whispers, fingers tapping lightly, eyebrows lifting at the smile steadily unfurling across April’s lips. “A _very_ pleasant evening, it seems.”

“You would know.” April replies with perfectly smooth satisfaction. The cat who got his morning cream would do well to take lessons from her, with that smile and unbridled delight dancing plainly across her gaze. Celine rather feels like throwing a celebration in commemorative honor, but that would be rather overdone and Angel would require explaining and there are more important things to be paid attention right now.

“Alright, already, let’s go!” Angel steams ahead, blissfully ignorant of anything and everything not concerning Christmas decorations, the purchase of a Christmas tree fit to rival Times Square which they somehow, someway, have to negotiate into the abandoned subway tunnels without rousing suspicion, and the incredibly detailed plan which could so easily go awry if not for their secret partner-in-crime. Thank goodness for inconspicuous assistance. “We have work to do!”

Celine shakes her head and makes a mental note to downgrade the caffeine intake for her little lady. “You didn’t let anything slip in your…passionate haze, did you?” she inquires, lowering her voice to a rich purr and arching her eyebrows just for a bit of flare.

April shoves her shoulder with a light scoff. “You’re lucky he didn’t ask me any questions.” She replies, ignoring Angel hollering for them to hurry up. “Or I probably would have.”

“Magic touch?”

“Girlfriend,” April grins, biting her lower lip in the most endearing little display Celine has ever seen, “ _magic_ doesn’t even cover it.”

***

The sound of his younger brother sobbing, hysterically, again, for the hundredth frickin’ time this month, is the melodious tune that rouses Raphael from an otherwise restful day of hard work and reaping lots of fruit for his labor. He decides to spread the holiday cheer and let Leo handle this for a minute or two, while he carefully checks his arm. It’s healed up nicely, with only a tiny scar left visible for the closely-squinting eye to see. He grins. Nothing like a little fun to ring in the holiday eve.

In the living room, Sensei is calmly sipping tea, Donnie and Leo are chatting, and Mikey is making another wet spot on the rug. Maybe he could “pretty please” April into getting them a new one. “What’s the deal this time?” he grumbles, joining the party after finding a toothpick to munch.

“The girls are out for the night.” Leo answers, hardly looking as put-out about that tidbit as their younger brother, who wails in despair at the reiteration. “Looks like it’s going to be a quiet Christmas Eve.”

“Speak for yourselves.” He smirks. “My baby’s ready for a test drive, and I’m answering the call.”

“Seriously?” Big Brother cocks a brow ridge and folds his arms across the chest. “It’s the middle of winter, Raph.”

“What better time to test her wheels?” he returns, undeterred. “Besides, Leo, it’s Christmas Eve. Nobody’ll be out and about tonight. I’ll be free and clear.”

“Dad.” Leo looks to Sensei with the same look he wore as a kid, trying to get intervention from their father before someone did something they were going to regret at some point or another. Sensei takes another thoughtful sip of tea, taps his finger twice against the aged china, and hums quietly.

“You will return in no less than one hour.” Sensei finally decrees; Leo tosses up his hands in exasperation, Donnie says nothing, and Mikey continues to mourn the loss of his “Angel-Face” for a whole evening. “Do not behave foolishly tonight, Raphael. I am granting you a gift in the Christmas spirit, and I will be most disappointed should you prove unworthy of it.”

“Not in this life or the next, Sensei.” Raphael promises, hard-pressed to not grin. Christmas spirit indeed; let this day be marked down in history and engrained on his memory, because it probably won’t ever happen again.

Leo glares at his retreating back, and he makes a point to smirk before shutting the garage door. _Swallow that, big brother._

*** 

Christmas Eve is a quiet time after six o’clock in the evening. Right on the dot, and sometimes five minutes before, the shops close, restaurants bolt their doors, and New York’s citizens venture homewards for warmth and comfort. The streets are nearly abandoned, save for the random passerby still lingering beneath dark skies. From her loft, Karai watches them with detached interest. This isn’t really her season. Holiday cheer and good will towards your fellow man were hardly recurring themes in childhood. Manipulation of kind and trusting hearts, on the other hand… _that_ was a lesson she received in great abundance.

At the far wall, the landline left here by previous owners flashes red every five seconds. She has a message. Actually, she has several messages. She knows who the caller is, has a fairly good idea of the message left, and possesses no real desire to listen. She should, as a dutiful daughter, as a loyal soldier…but lately, she hasn’t been either of those things. She’s been Karai. _Just Karai._

Karai doesn’t necessarily know what it means to be herself, but she’s trying to learn.

The distinctly-deafening rumble of an engine resonates from the ground up; her window panes tremble and the floorboards quiver. Instinct to retreat wars with curiosity to look, and the latter ultimately wins, once she spots the source three stories down and recognizes the massive form in black leather and shadows.

“What in the world is this monstrosity?” she asks, pushing hair from her eyes with one hand while the other rests at her hip. She’s seen motorcycles before, yes, but this hulking accumulation of mechanics and metal put them all to great shame. Sleek black with vibrant streaks of red in what she suspects are very specific locations, the bike is a perfect match to its rider. He grins at her around the toothpick protruding from the left side, a look of unmistakable pride beaming across his face.

“This, Miss Sunshine, is my baby.” He pats the protective steel over its engine. “Built her from the ground up with my own two hands. Thought you two should get acquainted.”

“I’m flattered.” She feels her lips twitching upward, a girlish sensation of delight bubbling up inside before she quickly clamps down and frantically tries to shove it aside. “But I don’t think I’m dressed for the occasion.”

That’s a bare-faced lie, and she’s sure he knows it. She may not wear the look as well as he does, but her dark-wash jeans and sleeveless top at least meet the bare minimum to look the part. If she really wanted to— _and I do…_ —a quick run back to her loft would find a jacket to at least keep her from catching death in this frigid air. How he isn’t freezing right now is beyond her comprehension.

But…she can’t. Well, she could, and she wants to, but she shouldn’t. Beating up street punks in back alleys? That’s called a good time. Shooting the breeze afterwards? That’s just a cooling-off period. Patching him up because he caught a bullet in the arm? Well, apparently she does have a heart after all.

_And kissing him? What do you call that?_

…a bad decision she doesn’t regret. At all.

“Not yet.” Raphael declares; he reaches down to a side compartment and withdraws a dark bundle of cloth. “Sorry it’s not wrapped. We’re out of green paper.”

_Another joke_ , she says to herself with a hidden smile. The cloth touches her outstretched fingers, and her smile is replaced with shock, and disbelief, and finally, once she’s quickly unfolded the bundle and held it for a full viewing, complete awe. 

“Raphael…” her voice falters when it shouldn’t, and her breath catches when it shouldn’t, and her fingers shake as they caress delicate stitching across the pockets of a brand-new jacket. Black leather, sleek lines, cloth panels down both sides and the undersides of each arm, and a cloth hood. She runs fingers over the stitching, taking note of differences in the thread work, and then lifts an eyebrow at him. “Did you do this part yourself?”

“Sewing’s nothing after you’ve knitted a scarf for eleven hours straight.” He retorts. “Besides…the look works for you.”

The bubble of delight swells within her, yet again, and by the time she remembers to quash it, it’s grown much too large and she feels far too warm to let herself be cold again. The leather is lined inside with cloth, soft and cozy around her limbs, and it fits to her like a satin glove. She pulls the zipper to her throat and strikes a pose, just because she can and it feels like the right thing to do. He whistles, and her mouth splits in a broad grin.

“So,” she strolls forward, tilting her head and studying him through dark lashes, “you have a place in mind?”

“Guess we’ll figure that out when we get there.” He cracks his neck to one side, flexes his shoulders, and then, before she can guess his next movements, reaches out and takes her by the waist. His hands are large, much larger than she’d ever realized, and they swallow her around the middle. The desire to feel his skin, against hers, without barriers, teases at the back of her mind. It’s distracting, far more than it should be, and she only remembers herself once he’s placed her securely at his front.

“What are you…?” she trails off, eyes looking down at the seat design. It’s the reverse of a traditional bike, with the main seat set back a ways and room for something—or, apparently, some _one_ —much smaller than his mountainous form in front. A human rider would never be able to use this thing, not as it’s presently designed, but for him…it works. It works very, very well.

“Face it, Bright Eyes,” he smirks, reaching alongside her for the handle, “ride behind me, and the only view you’ll be getting is that cute little tattoo Ding-Dong gave my shell years ago.”

The engine roars back to life, a violent rumbling beneath her, between her legs, and he settles into place behind her, chest to her back, arms encasing her on either side, knees pressed to the underside of her thighs. A broad wall of brick, of iron, of volcanic fury, of indomitable will, all around her. Suddenly, the cold night air means very little, because she is warm. So very, _very_ warm.

Wind cuts across her face and stings her eyes with the first forward throttle, but still she looks forward and keeps her eyes open. The city streams in vibrant blurs of blue and gold, red and green, pink and white. On the streets, the dirt and slush are an ugly combination, smeared across pavement, sloshed along the curb from whirling tires and frantic footsteps; along the sidewalk there are islands, small sanctuaries where trees and shrubbery have withered to dead twigs and fraying branches, but there is also snow. Blankets of shimmering white, untouched and pure, that make death beautiful. Lights dance and pattern the white in various shades, and if she squints hard enough, they almost look like multi-colored footprints. Tiny sprites, come down to make merry in the winter solstice.

Against her back, through the padding of leather and cloth, she feels the beating of his heart. A wild tempo, erratic and without rhythm, but alive and delighting in _being_ alive. She now understands why the cold doesn’t bother him; even if perhaps he’ll return to his home and sit before a heater while sensation returns to his limbs, right now, he relishes in the cold because he is alive. The streets belong to him, and to her, tonight. She can even let herself believe the city belongs to _them_ , even if only for tonight.

***

He drops her off in the same place he picked her up, where it’s protected by windowless walls and a back alley provides a quick escape away from prying eyes, deep within the city’s underbelly and into the darkness. She has her own suspicions where he and his clan have taken up new residence. She could ask, confirm her suspicions under the guise of innocent curiosity, but she doesn’t. Her curiosity is never innocent. He knows it. She knows he knows it. And secrets are half the fun anyway.

She gets off the bike and makes it two steps toward the door, then turns sharply, tosses her arms around his shoulders, half to hoist herself up and half to keep herself there, and finds his mouth with hers. This time, she doesn’t take him by surprise; he’s waiting for her, and even if he has no real idea how to kiss her, he puts nothing less than his all into figuring it out. His arms engulf her, strong enough to crush her, and the one hand that delves into her hair and musses it loose and free of bindings swallows her skull in its palm. By comparison, she feels small, weak, and fragile. It almost angers her, to feel anything less than a fiercely-trained warrior. She’s not a child. She’s not helpless.

When he—through a series of events she honestly doesn’t remember and could care less about—crushes her to the brick wall, it’s a relief. It means he has no intention of treating her otherwise, as a pretty damsel rather than the woman who has fought alongside him many a night since the first, who deals with her emotions by breaking bones and bruising flesh, who can get dragged behind a car for twenty feet and still shatter a man’s collarbone in retribution. It means he sees her as a partner, an equal. The one thing she’s never been to anyone.

“Gonna have to call it a night.” he says, but he’s breathless and that gives her immense satisfaction, “Curfew.”

She growls quietly, not because he’s cutting this short, but because he’s saying all the right things while she’s still pinned between cold brick and his heated chest, and his mouth is renewing the marks he left all along her throat. “You’ll pay for this next time.”

“Next time, huh?” he smirks; she can’t be sure if he’s amused with her words or the way she takes a minute to steady herself on the ground. “That a threat, or a promise?”

She shrugs, green eyes dark as they peer through her eyelashes. “Guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

***

Anyone who has been in the vicinity of their underground home will have heard a variety of ungodly noises over the past few weeks. Being residents of said home means a heightened level of exposure, which by default means there is a level of desensitization to whatever sounds Mikey chooses to make. However, while his brother’s vocal eruptions are one matter to deal with—primarily by ignoring—it is another matter to ignore Mikey bounding into his room, launching himself halfway across the room, and proceeding to bounce with the enthusiasm of a jumping bean on caffeine.

“Leo! Leo! Leo!!!” he hears his name, and then a bounce that throws his mattress out of order, and then his name and another bounce; by the fifth time he hears his name, he finds himself one bounce away from being toppled from his bed. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!!! Santa came and decorated the lair and it’s bright and shiny with lots of new lights and this gigantic tree that’s got lots more lights and pretty balls and—”

_Wait, what?_ Tree? Decorations? Lots of lights? Santa? _What??_

In his doorway, Leo makes out Donnie’s tall shadow leaning heavily against the frame; when he blinks a couple times, he can see the glasses perched askew on his face and, behind the lenses, eyes still weighed heavily with sleep. Apparently his room was not the first stop in Mikey’s yuletide rampage, and it’s not the last, as the youngest sibling bolts out of the room and beelines down the hall for Raph’s room. Leo quietly starts counting the seconds until the inevitable damage will occur. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

“Not in the slightest.” Donnie yawns, blinks three times, and then slowly stretches his arms heavenward. “But since we’re awake, I suppose we might as well go and look.”

“Might as well.” Leo nods, hoisting himself out of bed and shaking his head, as if to banish all remnants of sleep. Down the hall, an almighty crash precedes something that sounds remarkably similar to an elephant seal going on the rampage. Another crash follows. Mikey runs past the doorway, screaming. Raphael follows, charging ahead like a wild buffalo, bellowing incoherent threats.

At least they won’t have to worry about waking Sensei.

***

What little could be discerned from Mikey’s initial declarations as to the state of their living room was a gross understatement. Stepping around the corner with Leo at his side, Donatello barely recognizes this space as something belonging in an abandoned subway tunnel inhabited by five mutants. Colored lights are strung along every wall. A multitude of snowflakes have been fastened via unknown means to the concrete ceiling. The cold stone floor has been covered by a plush carpet of rich green. Their furniture has been shifted and rearranged to make room for what, truly, is the _piéce de résistance_ : a tree that consumes one entire corner of their living room, with branches spread wide and full and its' top brushing the arched ceiling. Every branch has been adorned with lights, garland, and ornaments. It’s something out of a magazine, the kind only elite humans would receive with explicit instructions on how to make their home the neighborhood envy with all its’ radiant Christmas wonder. What in the world is something like that doing in their living room?

Sensei clears his throat, instructing Raphael in no uncertain terms to stop sitting on his brother, and comes to observe the wonder with far more decorum than the rest of them, all with gaping mouths and half-bulged eyes. He hums quietly with head bowing, as if to pay the tree due respect for gracing their home with its glory. Mikey stares, entranced, at the snowflakes, and mumbles something about building a snowman. Donatello fears a lack of oxygen to his brain, from Raphael sitting on him too long.

“Merry Christmas, boys.”

His older brother jumps, as if electrified, and spins to the left half a second before Donatello follows in turn. Around the corner, leading to the kitchen, April is standing at the wall. Her hair is artfully gathered in a clip with thick tendrils falling loose, she’s wearing the most radiant shade of purple ever to be seen, her lips are dark pink and curved in a glorious smile, and her eyes are dancing in the lights. Donatello wants nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her breathless.

“Not quite Santa,” April continues, taking a casual step forward, “but we’re touched by the comparison, Mikey.”

His brother blinks, swiveling his head at an unhealthy angle to take her in better. “We?”

“O’Neil doesn’t get all the credit, Green Boy.” Angel smirks, propping herself against April’s shoulder. “I’ll have you know, I lugged half this furniture around myself.”

Celine drops a hand in Angel’s hair, ruffling playfully with a comment about moving the other half while the younger recuperated. She’s wearing blue to match his brother’s mask, and Donatello is quite certain of a distinct flush creeping over Leo’s face at the sight. Mikey, apparently, has recovered himself enough to dart forward and press kisses to Angel’s hand and showering her with promises, everything from cleaning her room for a year to sharing exactly half his pizza for the rest of his life.

“But we have to give credit where it’s due.” April adds, smiling in the way she does when something entirely unexpected is about to be announced. “We couldn’t have done it without our secret weapon. Thank you, Sensei.”

Their father bows humbly, but there’s mischief in his eyes. Mikey’s jaw almost hits the floor. “Sensei!! How could you?? _How_ could you not tell us? More specifically _me_??”

“Michelangelo,” Sensei murmurs with great affection, patting Mikey on the head, “you have many talents, my son. Keeping secrets is not among them.”

“Understatement of the year.” Raphael smirks, casting another look around the room. “This is…it’s really something, girls. The tree’s nice.”

Their brother launches into a righteously-indignant protest of simply describing the tree as “nice,” highlighting the precise placement of every light, ornament, and string of garland as though it is the next great masterpiece of their time. Angel rolls her eyes and tells him that the extra flattery isn’t going to earn him any favors. Quick as a wink, Mikey switches gears and sidles up to her side, inquiring if it might get him a little kiss under the mistletoe. Raphael immediately protests, declaring that to be one image he doesn’t need in his head.

At his right, Donatello feels a warm hand slip into his, fingers entwining with his, and the sweet aroma of April’s perfume wafts up to tease his senses. “You shouldn’t have…” he trails off, uncertain of what to really say. No, she shouldn’t have, none of them should have, but how can he seem anything less than grateful?

“And yet, I did.” She murmurs, all soft smiles and gentle joy. He doesn’t argue. He wouldn’t win.


End file.
